Euphoria

Past

The train rattles beneath us as we speed toward the city center. The metal wheels screech against the tracks, a rhythmic, high-pitched hum that vibrates through the soles of my shoes. Rei bounces in her seat next to me. Her short black hair sways with every movement, catching the light. Her excitement is so magnetic that even the elderly woman dozing beside her wakes up to smile.

“I cannot believe we are doing this,” Rei says. She grips her bag tight. “We are really going to audition. In Shibuya. Today.”

I laugh under my breath and stare at my hands. “I am trying not to think about it. If I do, I will pass out right here.”

Rei claps once to get my attention. “Then think about this instead. Look at our outfits. We look amazing.” She gestures to my jeans, white sneakers, and soft blue sweater. “Simple. Clean. Very you. You are like the calm breeze before a storm.”

She stands and does a small, wobbly twirl in the moving train to show off her own outfit. She wears a cropped black tops layered over a white camisole with a pleated skirt. “And I am the storm.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling as the tension in my chest loosens slightly. “That sounds about right.”

We bought snacks earlier, stuffing onigiri and melon bread into our bags. The plastic wrappers crinkle every time the train lurches. Sunlight flashes across the windows in blinding strobe-like bursts. My nerves rise every time I remember where we are heading, but Rei keeps talking. Her voice is a constant, grounding tether.

“I booked the return tickets already,” she says proudly. “So even if we fail, we can go home and cry in private.”

I press my lips together. “Thanks for the optimism.”

She grins. “We will cry while eating crepes. Strawberry ones.”

“That sounds a little better.”

When we reach Shibuya Station, the crowd hits us like a physical wave. The air smells of exhaust, expensive perfume, and fried street food. It is sensory overload. Colors, sounds, people, advertisements, music drifting from clothing stores. For a moment, I forget why we are really here.

We walk to the edge of the famous crossing. I glance around at the enormous screens and flashing lights towering above us.

Rei grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my sweater.

“This is so cool. Look. The shops. The people. The Food. If we ever get famous, maybe our faces will be up there too.”

I shake my head, but her enthusiasm is contagious. “Maybe.”

We eat taiyaki to kill time. The fish-shaped pastry is hot, and the sweet red bean paste burns my tongue, but I eat it anyway to distract my stomach. Rei keeps saying she wants something to remember this day, even if we end up failing the audition. I admire how she always balances hope and humor.

By the time we reach the audition building, my stomach is tight. There are dozens of people waiting in the hallway. Some stretch their hamstrings. Some practice vocal scales against the wall. Some look like they might throw up. I might be one of them.

Rei nudges me. “You will be fine. Just remember your lines.”

“That is the problem,” I whisper. “I never remember them when I panic.”

“You can use me as your emotional support animal,” she whispers back.

I laugh. It comes out shaky and thin.

We separate for a moment to fill out forms with trembling hands, then wait until our numbers are called. When mine appears on the digital screen, I almost forget how to use my legs.

Inside the audition room, the air conditioning is blasting. It is freezing. Three judges sit behind a long table, their faces illuminated by the glow of laptops. A camera on a tripod stares at me like a cyclops eye. My palms sweat.

“Begin when you are ready,” the center judge says without looking up.

I take a breath. The air tastes sterile. I start my acting piece. Halfway through, anxiety spikes. The line gets tangled on my tongue. Instead of bravery, my voice cracks.

The judges look up.

I push through it, even though I feel like sinking into the floor.

Then I sing.

I close my eyes to block out the camera. I surprise myself. The notes are not perfect, but they are clear. They resonate in the small room. When I leave, my legs wobble so hard I have to grab the doorframe.

Rei runs over the second I exit. “How was it?”

“I messed up the acting.”

She squeezes my shoulders hard. “I bet you still did better than you think.”

Her name is called next. I watch her go inside, confident and bright. When she comes out ten minutes later, she lifts her hands proudly.

“I sang and I danced. I think I did okay.”

We walk back to the station like nothing happened. We talk about parks we saw. We talk about the crepes we promised ourselves. We talk about everything except the audition.

For a few days, life returns to normal. Classes. Dance practice. Short study sessions in the library. Fries from the campus cafeteria that always taste a little too salty. Rei and I often stay late after class to practice choreography or sing together in an empty room. Those small routines form the quiet thread between us, pulling us closer.

Then one Friday night, my dorm door bangs open.

“Aurora!” Rei almost falls inside, tripping over her own feet. “I passed.”

My heart jumps into my throat. “You did?”

“Yes. They emailed me. Check your mail right now.”

I sit at my desk and open my laptop. My hands shake so much that I click the wrong tab twice. The screen brightness stings my eyes. When the email finally loads, I read the first line and stare with disbelief.

“I passed too.”

Rei screams again. “We are officially trainees. We are doing it. We are actually doing it.”

We jump around my tiny room for a full minute, hugging and shouting until my neighbor bangs on the wall. Then we get another email.

A meeting at the company. Next week. Mandatory.

When the day comes, the headquarters looks intimidating. Clean white walls. Automatic glass doors. Stern security guards. The air inside smells like lemon cleaner and money. The receptionist leads us down a long hallway to a room with a single table.

A woman stands beside it, holding a clipboard. Her expression is sharp, but not unkind.

“Welcome. I am your trainee coordinator,” she says. “Today we will talk about the program and your responsibilities.”

Rei and I sit together, knees touching under the table for comfort. The coordinator explains schedules, classes, expectations, and evaluations.

“Aurora, your vocal test showed potential. You will take vocal lessons and prepare a song for the first monthly evaluation. You have one month to choose your performance piece.”

I nod, swallowing the dry lump in my throat.

Rei leans over and whispers, “I am so proud of you.”

The coordinator continues. “You will both have mentors for choreography and acting. Also, your first evaluation will not be solo. It will be a group assignment.”

The door opens behind us. The sound of the latch clicking echoes in the quiet room.

Two boys walk inside.

I turn around, and my breath catches.

The first one is tall, blond, and striking in a way that feels unfair. He has a naturally broad frame and a face that shifts from warm to intense depending on how the light hits his cheekbones. He carries himself with a loose, easy confidence. His eyes flick over the room with amused curiosity.

The second boy is slightly shorter but still tall. His dark brown hair falls neatly above his eyebrows. He wears a simple grey shirt, but he makes it look expensive. His gentle brown eyes make him look trustworthy, but there is a quiet, calculating sharpness beneath the surface. His posture is relaxed but attentive.

He looks at me. I blink, suddenly unable to look away.

The coordinator gestures to them.

“This is Abby and Haru. You four are going to perform together for the monthly evaluation. It is a group project, so coordinate with each other. You will be assessed as a team and as individuals.”

Rei glances between them and me. Her excitement transforms into something more cautious.

The coordinator steps toward the door. “I will send the address of the old company building. That is where trainees practice. Evaluation day will take place here.”

She leaves.

Silence settles in the room, heavy and electric.